Smokin' Aces Page #8

He shuffles, begins dropping Aces on their bodies like dead

enemy soldiers. One of his bodyguards enters; a bulging,

slow-witted, ex-bodybuilder by the name of HUGO CROOP.

ISRAEL:

D'you talk to'm?

HUGO:

(fetching Mylanta

from the fridge)

I got his machine.

A beat. Israel fidgets, twitches, rubs coke residue from his

nose and over his gumline

ISRAEL:

What'd you say?

HUGO:

(gulping Mylanta)

I said I got his machine.

ISRAEL:

No, what did you say on the machine?

HUGO:

I left him a message.

ISRAEL:

I know you left him a message. What

did you say!

Hugo looks up, seems confused. Moments pass. Israel, the

patience of a gorilla, crammed into a canary cage.

ISRAEL:

Jesus Hugo! How is it that you can

turn a simple conversation into a

f***ing hedge maze!? This is zero

degree of difficulty man!

HUGO:

Okay.

ISRAEL:

Then why are you still looking at me

like I'm asking for the square root

of something! What did you say!?

Hugo, still unsure, speaks in spite of it.

HUGO:

I said that we were returning his

call and you were real concerned,

because he sounded real concerned.

ISRAEL:

Look at that, we didn't have to fill

up the whole blackboard after all.

Now, do you know anything about that?

Israel wrist-flicks a playing card, it embeds a sofa cushion

like a ninja throwing star, right next to a beige coat.

HUGO:

About what?

ISRAEL:

Look at the collar on that coat...

Hugo, wary, walking over, inspecting the coat from a distance.

ISRAEL:

What's that look like, that stain?

Hugo edges closer, looks down at the coat, squints.

HUGO:

I dunno... Cinnamon roll?

ISRAEL:

Cinnamon roll? No, good guess though.

No, Hugo that looks like jizz...

(reshuffles, stares)

And I'm no forensic expert mind you,

but that looks like some fuckhead

shot their load on a twelve-thousand

dollar calf's skin jacket. The twist?

It's My twelve thousand dollar, calf's

skin jacket.

(beat, then)

So y'got semen, human ejaculate --

(checks watch)

-- that's been allowed to soak in

for what, six, seven hours now? Work

it's way into the fabric-f***'n fibers --

and while you may never see it in a

Tide commercial, I think it still

safely qualifies as a "tough, deep

down stain."

Hugo takes another pull off the Mylanta bottle, moving slowly,

like most morons do, avoiding eye contact at all cost.

HUGO:

I could have it sent out...

ISRAEL:

...to what? Incinerate? 'Cuz I'm

almost dead certain there's not a

f***ing laundry detergent or dry

cleaning process known to man that

can ever return that jacket to its

former glory! Some sh*t, suffice it

to say, just don't wash out.

(beat, cooling down)

Now, the money question... To whom

does that stain belong?

Hugo, gameface falling apart... Israel prods him.

ISRAEL:

C'mon, somebody was banging one of

these skanks, sans rubber --

(beat, assesses girls)

which is terrifying in its own right --

pulled out, let 'er rip and ruined

the last gift my mother gave me before

she died.

(snatching up coat)

The way I see it, it's the same as

if she was dug up, three months dead

and it was shot right on her rotting

corpse, 'cuz that's how it defiled

this feels!

Hugo. Long pause. Big dumb blush.

HUGO:

Do you want me to say I did it?

ISRAEL:

I was kinda hoping, yeah.

HUGO:

Do you want me to say I'm sorry?

ISRAEL:

Only if you really, truly mean it.

Hugo, swallowing, pressures on. The phone begins to ring.

HUGO:

...I'm sorry...

ISRAEL:

Are you a f***ing colossal idiot?

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes